


Meleager

by princeofegoism



Category: BlazBlue
Genre: Bondage, Deal With the Devil, Drug Addiction, Gritty Crime AU, I am a bad person who should feel bad, Low Magic AU, M/M, Organized Crime, Prostitution, Villain Protagonist, but I don't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeofegoism/pseuds/princeofegoism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why does it always have to be no take and all give with you?" He really had no answer that question.</p>
<p>The answer lies unspoken in the space between them. It shifts around awkwardly, not quite understanding where it wants to settle down before curling up like a cat between the concepts of 'exhaustion' and 'justice' (it neither acknowledges nor questions the concept of 'power' looming nearby). </p>
<p>"I'm simply tired of this world taking from us. Nothing more."</p>
<p>There is something soothing in the simplicity of that statement.</p>
<p>---------------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
<p>It's a story about love, bondage, hate, more bondage and mistakes. Or it's a story about taking and not giving or giving and not receiving. Or it's a story about a pair of bastards getting what they deserve. Or it's all three. Or it's whatever you want it to be, I guess. </p>
<p>But literally, it's a story about a three people who make very poor decisions in a very unforgiving world and suffer for it. Anything else, isn't really my choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For Your Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [general-loki](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=general-loki).



> Disclaimer A: The author of this story does not support any harmful action undertaken by the characters in this story. Please, do not recreate them except in appropriately themed BDSM sessions with your consenting partner.
> 
> Disclaimer B: This is an AU. Characters resemble their canon counterparts and have the same base personality traits so that they are recognizable as originating from the same source but there will notable differences from canon.
> 
> Opening Note: This is a Low-Magic AU where the primary source of said magic comes from Demons and their rituals. In Low Magic, most magic is pretty low and doing stuff such as altering reality, immortality and so on, is impossible. However, pretty much everyone has an idea that Magic, referred to mainly as Occult due to cultural reasons, exists. It’s like gravity but also in the sense that despite it existing, not everyone believes in it.

**Disclaimer A:** The author of this story does not support any harmful action undertaken by the characters in this story. Please, do not recreate them except in appropriately themed BDSM sessions with your consenting partner.

**Disclaimer B:** This is an AU. Characters resemble their canon counterparts and have the same base personality traits so that they are recognizable as originating from the same source but there will notable differences from canon.

**Opening Note:** This is a Low-Magic AU where the primary source of said magic comes from Demons and their rituals. In Low Magic, most magic is pretty low and doing stuff such as altering reality, immortality and so on, is impossible. However, pretty much everyone has an idea that Magic, referred to mainly as Occult due to cultural reasons, exists. It’s like gravity but also in the sense that despite it existing, not everyone believes in it.

Meleager

or Ich Tu Dir Weh or even The Prostitute’s Tale

It seems that every story has a beginning, a middle and an end. The last of those being inevitable (although you should not hold me to it). But the first part, is something more of a suggestion; something that only by hindsight do stories obey. By the very nature of writing something from the start, you have a beginning. But the beginning wherein little happens or where characters are introduced seems unnecessary in a story where you are already familiar with everyone important. And besides all of that, in our case, the beginning is somewhat distant from our middle. Whether we take it as our introduction our we take it as when the story officially starts.

I propose this to you, a story about twins (formerly triplets but that is a story in and of itself), a pair of brothers actually. In a desolate corner of a town whose name is ultimately unimportant, they lived for eighteen years of their lives. The older was unable to make a decent living for himself (nor did he care to) so the younger took it upon himself to work as a prostitute and support themselves in that way. Due to being something of a rarity (a male and one with that figure!), the younger was in high demand around their city, making a surprisingly high amount and enough to support their family (and more importantly, habits!).

Somewhere else, in a bustling portion of the town in a condo far above the rest of the world (where they could not possibly bother him), a man who had lost his wife and children several years earlier engages in his own vices. These vices ranging from the finer arts (he’s spent half a million dollars in books alone this year), complicated machines meant to restrain and another number of depraved things and the Occult practice of alchemy. His most recent acquisition is an amass of books he anticipated to be of the latter but in fact, had little to do with Alchemy and much more to do with the Ars Goetia and such manuals dictating the rule of demons.

Now, knowing this, I introduce to all of you Meleager, Ich Tu Dir Weh or even  The Prostitute’s Tale:

**Marche du Pute**

In that unnamed desolate town, in a shoddy apartment (the curtains are black but somehow still stained and are being used to cover the only three windows in the studio [two of which are broken with plastic wrap and tape covering them], the floorboards are creaking and cracked and a draft rises up through them, the door handle to the bathroom has been broken off and it’s sink drips water similar to urine) the two brothers are discussing their scheduling habits. Or rather, Hazama is telling Yuuki why his habits are absolutely awful.

“The least you could do is schedule my meetings right.” Hazama sighs, checking his nails for the eleventh time (the black polish is chipped on his ring finger on the left hand and the middle finger and thumb of the right and it’s all Yuuki’s fault).

“Or, you could just put it in your phone and save us both some time. And me some trouble. I mean seriously, at least put their actual names in. All this codename bullshit is confusing.” Terumi replies, flicking through his own cell phone (and scheduling his own deals with actual codenames just fine).

“What are you talking about?” The younger asks.

“Codenames. I mean seriously? ‘Doctor Relius Clover’, ‘Lotte Carmine’? Not only are those fake but they aren’t even funny..”

A deep groaning echoes throughout the building. Hazama pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and turns to Yuuki.

“Yuuki, those are real names.” He says, getting up from their couch (it’s huge and sag a little bit, the scent of it is unplaceable but vaguely unpleasant) and showing him his own phone. “And anyway, who are you to talk? You’ve got me down in your phone as ‘Money Slut’.”

Shrugging.

“Didn’t want anyone to know we were related. And anyway, the guys think it’s funny.”

“Guys? You have no friends.”

“That’s not true.”

“What? Kagura? He only likes you because you sell him cocaine.”

The older brother stands up and stares into the younger. Their eyes do not meet. Through a veil of thin flesh and the general feeling of tension that has polluted (mingling with the smell of dried semen and piss) the air between them.

“First off, he’s not buying coke from me. He’s buying weed. Second, we hang out when I don’t have drugs, sometimes. Third, Ragna and I are tight.” He explains, leaning in closer to prove his point (it proves absolutely nothing but that his desire to intimidate everyone and anyone is too strong to be resisted).

“Ragna hates you. You broke his cat’s leg and called his brother a whore. And the only thing you and Kagura do together is smoke the weed that you sold him. You have nothing in common other than that and a family history of alcoholism.” Hazama replies, telling the truth as bluntly as possible not because it’s just his way but to annoy his brother as much as possible so he leaves the house and doesn’t bother him again.

It doesn’t work. Instead, Yuuki relocates to the couch and turns on their television (it fell off the back of a truck; really). The channels he flips through are irrelevant and boring (no cable or satellite of course so any of the channels he could receive with some interesting content are locked off) and he is are of this. The volume is turned up regardless.

“Fuck it. I’m leaving.” Hazama concedes.

He takes his jacket from the coat rack (which is a piece of wood that Yuuki superglued to the wall and acted like it was an actual piece of woodwork, bragging to his younger brother for several minutes over the phone) and slips it on. Unlike his older brother, Hazama insists on wearing rather expensive clothing. This is both for a vanity play and for pragmatic reasons. Dressing excessively skimpy or trashy would make others assume he was a Streetwalker and thus, he would turn less profit. Despite effectively being one, he prefers to portray himself as a discount Escort. And so pay that ought to go to their apartment goes to his wardrobe. On the other hand, Terumi insists on wearing clothing that basically identifies him as a Drug Dealer. An oversized yellow hooded jacket, a shirt buttoned up wrong and pants showing the elastic of his boxers (plus a pair of marvelous running shoes) are exactly what people think of when they think about drug deals. All he needs are a few highly visible tattoos. Oh wait, he has those as well; snakes coiling upwards on his arms. Although, Hazama isn’t absent of them either. He has a large one on his back depicting Ouroborous, similar to his brother’s (but that spins left rather than right).

“Don’t get killed.” Yuuki remarks, and he does mean it (both for sentimental reasons and because he needs the money; but which one is the driving motivation is up for interpretation.).

Hazama doesn’t respond, opening the door and walking out. The last thing he hears is the TV blaring something vacuous and the door slamming behind him. He swears one day it will fall off it’s hinges.

**

By midnight (two hours after the previous conversation had occurred), Hazama finds himself in a bar he often goes to. It’s obviously shady but not in the lower class way, being aimed at middle class trash (although anyone that isn’t making twice as much of them would never say it, except for Hazama of course but he’s special). The entire building is filled with plush red carpeting (and with patrons of the middle to upper middle classes who want to do something daring for once in their miserable, mediocre lives so in this nameless district, they engage in depravity) and is wallpapered with red and gold striped paper. There is a few scratches in it, however, and the knife mark from the last time he showed up remains (he wonders if Azrael will be mad about that,) but they seem to have cleaned up the martini he threw on the ground. That’s what Carmine gets for haggling.

Speaking of Carmine, he was supposed to show up fifteen minutes ago. Hazama had prepared in advance, everything needed for a night of passion, and is annoyed at the wasted effort. He orders another drink, places it on Yuuki’s tab and swallows it within a minute. By this point, his vision is slightly blurred and he feels a little light headed so he probably shouldn’t drive.

With a sigh, he takes his phone from his coat pocket and holds it with a weak grip. It slips from his fingertips onto the carpet, burying itself in the plushness. He bends over to grab it only for a pair of masculine, roughed hands to grab it for him.

“That’s mine.” He states, despite the fact being clear.

“I am aware.” The man replies.

The young man stares up at this near stranger and squints (which shouldn’t be possibly considering the state his eyes are usually in; near closed). The face is familiar but seems more worn than usual with bags beneath the eyes and a certain redness about it. Not only that, but the man’s body is thinner and more gaunt with his collarbones and hips more prominent than ever before. His lips are split down the middle and he has a strange marking on his neck. Now, an ordinary person would most likely leave at this moment but Hazama was far from ordinary. Or even, arguably, sane.

“You look like shit.” He says, taking his phone from the man’s hands.

A chuckle.

“My apologies. If I had known you would be here, I would have cleaned myself up.” That doesn’t explain anything but Hazama’ll take it. “Could I buy you a drink?”

“Only if it’s something light. I’ve been doing hard liquor shots.” Hazama says.

The shot glasses remain on the table, smelling faintly of vodka and tequila (which says that he came to get fucked up more than anything and everyone at the bar knows it).

This particular man however, orders wine (Chardonnay, to be exact). And Hazama drinks it (despite not being a big wine drinker, he truly prefers mixed drinks but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone but Yuuki, who barely understands the difference between a Cosmo and a Fireball). It doesn’t help his circumstances, however, and he feels worse for having drunk it. Perhaps he should have asked for coffee, instead as now there’s absolutely no way he’s getting home. Then again, why not make the best of this situation?

“Clover… you don’t come to see me often enough.” He purrs, smiling softly as he places his hand atop his ‘partner’s’.

“No, I don’t. I’ve been having family issues. But as those are since resumed, would you like to come back to my penthouse?”

With a another smile, Hazama grabs Clover’s hand.

“Well, I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

**

**Marche du Souteneur**

One and a half hour before for that happens, Yuuki the older brother receives a phone call. Assuming it’s Hazama, he picks it up without hesitation and says what he normally would when his brother called.

“What the fuck do you want?” He ask.

Unfortunately, as you can infer, it was not Hazama.

“I want my money Terumi.” The voice responds, far deeper and raspier (it’s more like a purr actually, which does nothing to calm his nerves) than his brother’s could ever be.

“Oh fuck, I thought it was Hazama!” He apologizing (he knows it won’t make it better but there’s that instinctive human desire to try regardless that’s getting in the way).

The man from behind the cell phone laughs.

“You talk to your brother like that?” He laughs once more as Yuuki blunders with the phone making a variety of excuses. “Don’t care. But if you don’t bring me my money by Sunday then I’m going to rip off both your legs and sell you as a trap sex slave on the internet. But I’ll give you a discount if you lace Kagura’s pot with some acid.”

Yuuki pulls on his collar, despite no one being around to see that display of body language, so the buttons on his shirt pop open.

“That’s a very specific threat Mad Dog Sir… uh… how much of a discount?” He asks.

“I’ll let you keep a leg.”

With that, the man behind the phone hangs up. And Yuuki promptly begins to panic. First, he searches for his own personal stash of cocaine (three grams is worth six hundred and sixty dollars but six hundred to two thousand is the equivalent of breaking your piggy bank).  Then, he proceeds to tally up the price of all of Hazama’s clothing (equalling two thousand dollars brings the price down to ten grand but may also anger his counterpart so deeply that he’ll spend three to spite him).

This leaves Plan C which is less of a carefully crafted plan and more of a panic mode situation. Quickly, he sends a barrage of texts to his younger brother that, unfortunately and unbeknownst to him, will not be received until early tomorrow morning. Failing that, he rapidly descends the stairs and heads towards where his car ought to be. Forgetting in that instant that it was damaged hitting a pedestrian, one of whom was very adamant about not pressing charges against him in return for not alerting the authorities. (which is a different story for another time).

“Ragna!” He screams, banging on the roof (not intending to awaken everyone in the building but doing so anyway).

That particular young man takes the stairs two at a time, causing him a small measure of anxiety in the back of his head (what if he were to fall? it’s so much more dangerous that way) and throws the garage door open.

“What the Hell’s going on here?” He shouts, surveying the area.

So one must imagine his face when he sees nothing but a washed up Drug Dealer banging on the roof.

“Terumi. Come to send more apology flowers?” Ragna asks, folding his arms over.

Yuuki shakes his head furiously and tries to maneuver around, only to trip slightly over a discarded shoe. Catching himself, he manages a smile that is more teeth than companionship.

“Not this time. I need your help.” At the sight of Ragna’s unconvinced eyes, another loveless smile is flashed. “Hazama’s drunk and with some weird guy. I need to go rescue him but my car’s fucked up.”

Knowing that the two of them work in the same profession (just suspecting counts as knowledge to our deuteragonist [or anti-hero, if you prefer although I doubt how much the term applies]), he anticipates a soft spot getting hit.

“Jesus Christ, take mine.” Ragna insists, throwing the keys towards his neighbour (which are then caught effortlessly with one hand).

With something akin to a smirk but less genuine, Yuuki disappears off in the clunker that is Ragna’s car. It is only tomorrow morning when he suspects he has been played but that’s another story.

**

By the time he reaches the club (creatively entitled “The Dog House”), Hazama has already left with that particular man. In fact, only the fresh marks on Yuuki’s Tab indicate that he was here at all. However, Yuuki is not the sort of man to be stopped by such things and instead, diverts the attention of the bartender to himself (through the use of large amounts of “Heys”).

“Hey, come here.” That is the final straw and the woman directs herself towards Yuuki, her smile so forced that it resembles a grimace with the corners upturned. “Did you see some guy here? Looks just like me but if I was a dick.”

“Hazama? He’s a regular. You could have just asked.” She replies. “But I did see him. With an older man I’ve never met before. They went off together but I couldn’t tell you where.”

“Right.”

And with that, Yuuki stands up from the barstool. You see, there is only a certain amount of chasing he will do before he decides that Hazama’s got this, regardless of whether or not Hazama has actually got it. As this was a dead end and the Bartender was likely the only person who would notice, there was really no other solution beyond going through Hazama’s computer which he can’t get into anyway.  Seeing that it’s a moot point, and he isn’t that big on morals or whatever, he simply decides to go home. But when are things ever that simple?

“Terumi.” A booming voice calls out from the farthest edge of the building.

And by this point, it should go without saying whose voice it is. After all, the definition of an anti-hero is someone is either unwilling or unable to do heroic actions. Or both. Lacking either the moral stronghold of a man such as Bang Shishigami (who is another story I wish I had the ability to tell, truly) or the emotional strength of Professor Kokonoe (a story which I refuse to tell) or even the moral strength of one such Ragna (a story which is inevitably told). As he has none of these qualities, the man he finds himself facing is of course, the Mad Dog of this unnamed city himself.

With sweat dripping down his face, Yuuki slowly turns towards the figure, forcing out a smile.

“Mad Dog!” He coos, extending his arms in something of an air embrace.

It is not returned.

“Did you come to bring me my money already?” The much (much) larger man smiles, amusement dripping from his (dare I say) sultry voice.

At this point, a barrage of thoughts run through his head (ranging from a simple flip off to having a whole rant about the interest rates of this country and human decency) but what he truly says is;

“Uh….. no?” And perhaps he doesn’t even realized that he’s said it, searching around the room (or he does but hates to recognize it or a number of other nuanced reasons but regardless, it is not adequately acknowledged).

A hearty laugh.

“Then why are you here?” The real question, hidden behind for the sake of a cheap laugh.

Met with another barrage of thoughts, some fantasies, some lies, before he settles on telling the truth if only so he doesn’t have to bother thinking up any more lies.

“I was looking for Hazama. But he’s not here so… I’ll be going.” He points towards the door with his thumb and attempts to back up.

He doesn’t make it very far.

Now, one of the interesting things about Azrael is his ability to move that freakishly large body of within the blink of one eye. It’s as if he was not constrained by what we commonly see as a law of motion itself. As a general (or rather, accepted) rule, the bigger things are, the slowly they move (or rather, the clumsier they move). The result of this broken rule, is a massive hand holding onto the chin of our hero, tipping it upwards and forcing him to stare into those dull red eyes.

There is no malice in them. Only a few traces resembling what the emotions passing through a wolf staring at a legless cow must be. There is an indomitable hunger in both his gaze and smile (not simply a display of fangs, that’s something they might have shared, but something natural without even a single trace of the same smugness in Hazama’s or his own sadistic euphoria).

Yuuki’s face grows pink in some places and white in others from the pressure of the force. The bizarrely long, claw-like fingernails (still beautifully pink, like a maiden’s cheeks… or other things) dig into his skin, drawing a single red bead of blood onto that hand.

“Don’t come here again.” Following the absence in the eyes, his voice holds nothing close to threatening (he speaks to our hero as if talking to a near friend; impersonal with even a few traces of sympathy behind it but nothing more than that).

He licks the ruby hued bead off his fingernail, a lascivious expression crossing over his face.

The message is understood.

**

**Petit Airs Au Bord du Ruisseau**

In that particular man’s apartment (a miniature garden of bookshelves and antique furniture of which the age of obvious), our protagonist lays about the bed. This bed, he realizes, is worth more than possibly his entire apartment (shoddy coat rack and all). The softness of it alone brings him to this conclusion but falling into a pile of musty blankets (the thread count far too high for him to know by texture alone) confirms it.

“You have a nice place.” He remarks, attentions apparent.

But our tritagonist (or perhaps something darker) is focusing on something else.

Staring out from the window at the sudden rain and downwards at the amass of people collecting before, he stands. A strange thought crosses through him; to jump from his door-like windows and dash himself at the streets. To hear voices resound from a ground in shock that this man, stranger to them, would do such a terrible thing. Although he isn’t sure if this desire stems from an intrinsic hunger for knowledge or something weaker (in his eyes); more frail.

When he thinks of Hazama, he associates his delicate figure and wild emotional state with frail. The word is superimposed over his silhouette.

To kill one’s self is not a thought that comes without warning; regardless of what one may have assumed. It is a paradox; a regrettable impulse that is planned for longer than most military strategies. Although, what was the breaking point is obvious (to himself but not really anyone else), what had lead up to that was similarly a form of depression (unrealized; as most of his dreams and fantasies were). He still recalls a faint breathing somewhere in a stale and frozen hospital room; the phantom of her hands against his still remains.

But that’s too painful to explain in any detail, so he wipes his thoughts and focuses on feelings (for once in his life). There is first the urge to die which comes only from great anxiety and despair throughout his life but behind that, the urge for a public death is something more complex and nuanced. Perhaps it is that sadism that he was famous for years ago (and she had loved him in spite of it… or he had loved her in spite, something like that), a desire to continue to traumatize and damage (his dreams of machines and engineering had come from that same strong feeling of breaking things into pieces) people even as he departs from this life. Or, something weaker than that, the desire to not be alone or forgotten.

Well, he’s not a psychologist. It isn’t his place to think about this. And besides, what the issue is has become irrelevant now. The answer is clear.

“Are we going to fuck or not? It’s been half an hour.” Hazama asks, tapping his fingers against the table.

“I’m sorry.” This particular man replies, slowly turning from the window (to throw himself out would only make things worse, now but still, there remains something like fascination).

Walking up beside the bed, he begins to awkwardly fumble with the buttons of his shirt (the unimpressed gaze of his soon to be lover not helping with the matter).

“You’re out of it today.” Hazama remarks, sitting upwards and working off his own clothing (his waistcoat and shirt are undone in a fluid sweeping from his collarbone to his crotch).

Crawling closer towards this particular man, he brushes his fingertips against the newly exposed chest (covered with a thick, light blonde hair).

“Am I?” Our tritagonist replies, dodging the question as if it were loaded.

“Yes, you are. But let’s make that better, okay?”

Hazama doesn’t wait for a response, pulling this particular man on top of himself so that their chests touch. Clumsily, his belt is undone by a pair of large hands (skilled in the laboratory but so uncertain about their future that they are unable to focus on the present) and discarded onto the ground. His remaining clothing soon follows it, making a neat little pile. This particular man’s clothing does not even hint at being taken off, the few buttons seeming more like a courtesy than much of anything else.

Gently, he starts kissing on the nape of Hazama’s neck, occasionally biting for the sake of variety (and a response; unreceived). Before long, his hands move downwards, taking our protagonist’s shaft in hand and moving it up and down in quick, successive jerking motions. A small moan slips from Hazama’s lips, something he can’t recall doing with a client before. So, as if it were a reward or something, he moves with this particular man, shaking his hips inwards and out (as his head is emptied of thoughts, replacing everything with drips of pleasure).

However, as he brings our protagonist closer and closer to orgasm, this particular man stays within his own head; thoughts flitting like butterflies.

Coming onto the heels of that window desire, something else rises (both literally and metaphorically). He loves Hazama’s body, worships the mind and covets his disgusting personality but still… to simply snap his neck as his face contorts into ecstasy and cure loneliness that way, would that not be another act of love as well? Ah, it’s too early to say it’s love. Despite watching him (and that brother of his of whom this particular man is still not sure what he ought to do with) go about their lives (from the moment they first met, Hazama’s pale and unblemished skin and filthy, wretched heart stuck into his memory like a blade) for almost a year now, he isn’t sure about his feelings. He rarely is.

Emotions are transient, weak things that shatter like glass under the slightest bit of pressure. He doesn’t want to be counted with such disgusting things, so it’s best to ignore them. But of course (he knows this already), it is inevitable that at one point he will slip up and fall into them. He had done so once before (the phantom that is her thin skin migrates towards his shoulders; glassy green eyes silently judging) and since then, he must be going insane. Knowing both what he’s doing is irrational but being unable to either seek help or stop it… that’s probably another contributing factor to throwing away everything like this. He has made up his mind.

Even finally feeling that warm embrace, the feeling of hands (like a pair of drowned rats) hanging onto his shoulders is unbearably cold. What little comfort this brings him is far too late. It’s all far too late. At least he can complete this.

He stares down at the white fluids covering his hand.

He could snap Hazama’s neck right now and be done with it.

**

“Relius… Why’s it always have to be no take and all give with you? ” Hazama remarks, draping himself over this particular man’s lap. “I want to see your face contorted in pleasure.”

That’s my line. The thought flits over this man’s head. But he doesn’t say it. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m not in the mood for penetration.” He remarks, covering his partner’s body with a blanket (what remains of his sense of decency demands it).

A scoff.

“Seriously? Well, whatever. How about tomorrow?” Hazama asks.

This particular man nods his head slowly, settling down beneath the covers.

“What’s this?” His companion asks.

The question remains unanswered as he draws Hazama close.

“I hate sleeping alone.”

****  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Meleager

or Ich Tu Dir Weh or even The Prostitute’s Tale

 

“I was listening.” A voice gently said, crawling out in soft spirals. “I was listening to your song.”

“Pardon me?” Said a man condemned to die (and yet, so blindingly oblivious to this fact that he might as well have had a shroud covering both his eyes).

“For a hundred days, I have been listening to your quiet cries of grief. I have been watching your figure in the darkness sobbing like a child. Not for a hundred and one years have I seen such a pitiful situation.” The volume intensified irregularly, as if the person who spoke was unfamiliar with the act of speaking.

The man condemned to die took a step backwards, a sense of fear (for the first time in his natural life) inserted itself into his lungs with the viscosity of blood.

“Don’t run from me. I am here to help.” The voice coming from nowhere replied, prepared to use force if they must.

From scientific curiosity, he stood in place, quickly scanning the unnatural darkness that rests within the corner of a hospital room at midday (the sky is blue and few clouds pass it, never even touching the sun) of Spring. The source of the voice can not be identified.

“Is this some kind of joke?” He asked, voice holding a hint of violence.

“Let’s skip that nonsense, hmn?” The voice said. “You believe in both magic and miracles, do you not Doctor?”

There was no response.

“As your God has denied you a miracle, I am providing the magic. In exchange for your future, I will grant you your ----. Is that acceptable?”

Thoughts had rushed around in the head of that condemned man. The idea of walking away was quickly replaced with the concept of ‘Mercy’ and ‘Blood relation’. The fantasy of closing your eyes and waiting for his miracle anyway was too far to grasp or believe in any longer and with a waking nightmare, it grew ever more distant. In the languid days that had passed him by, he had already accepted their deaths more times than he would like to admit. Feeling the traces of cold fingers against his shoulder, only the thin barrier of a cotton button up shirt between the two of them, he muttered an answer.

“What, exactly, would this contract of ours entail?” Even as emotional as this, he clung onto rationality.

Something in the shadows, something impossible to understand, shifted as if cocking it’s head.

“In order for the one living to keep on living, I will take away your life in seven years time and replace it with an existence I find more enjoyable. You will resemble a ----, empty and hollow.”

“And what are you getting out of all this?” The question had to be asked, the motivations always had to be understood.

“You are brilliant and seductive. Infinitely creative and patient. Yet, easily and hideously bored. And I am lonely.”

With such a satisfying answer…

“If it’s that simple, then I agree.” He downplayed, acted as if it weren’t quite so bad, as a coping mechanism (“If I detach myself completely, then I can’t feel any pain.” is the odious and obscure philosophy).

And like that, it had seemed as if his entire world was swallowed up by darkness and laughter.

**Marche du Pute**

When our hero wakes up, he finds himself alone. Looking to the side, he notices that his clothes were folded up and put on a neat pile and something in the house seems to be burning, judging by the smell. He’s half expecting a ‘Good morning, I made you breakfast’ type thing right now which isn’t really his kind of situation. If he wanted to commit, he’d have taken up Azrael’s offer of Madame up by now.

Standing up from the bed, he quickly gets dressed as to not encourage this particular man any further. Then, he heads to the downstairs area of the penthouse, reaching the kitchen.

“I’m leaving!” He reminds anyone that might be listening, similarly expecting last night’s payment this time around.

No one answers.

With a deliberately overdramatic sigh, he starts searching the building. First, checking the kitchen more thoroughly. Not only is that particular man not there but there doesn’t even appear to be any fire or food cooking. And yet, when he approaches it, the smell grows ever stronger and directs him towards the bathroom.

Now, Hazama is not a superstitious man, nothing of the sort. But he is a smart man. So instead of blindly entering the room like a particular other anti-hero might (this person being Ragna but this isn’t a story about him), he takes his phone from his pant’s pocket and calls his older brother.

“The fuck you want?” Yuuki answers, his voice revealing that he probably just got up and/or was in the middle of masturbating to something empty and disgusting, as per usual.

“You know that guy I went off with last night?” Hazama glosses over it, as per usual.

“Yeah? So?” His brother scoffs.

“Something’s burning and I can’t find him. The smell’s coming from the bathroom but I’m not sure I should go in there.” He explains, trying to maintain a calm tone of voice is only to prevent Yuuki from becoming further riled up.

There is a sound of shifting around on the other side of the phone. A little sigh of relief that he didn’t catch Yuuki at a… bad time passes over but another wave of anxiety quickly crushes it.

“Did he pay you?” Within seconds, Yuuki’s entire demeanour changes completely.

Usually, the two of them banter back and forth (or, more accurately, scream at each other until neither of them is angry any more) with fake insults and false concern (Hazama more often than his brother) but this is different. This is a serious situation; darkly serious, even (in spite of that word being overused so).

“No, he didn’t pay me.” Hazama replies, trying to match his brother’s tone while keeping any and all unpleasant (and the all word is the operative one here) out.

“Then go get it.” Yuuki replies.

“But Yuuki, I’m-- Yuuki?!” Our protagonist throws his phone down in anger. “He hung up on me.”

The way he says that is kind of sad.

But since he’s a decent brother and cares somewhat (more than he’d like) about the older twin, he enters the bathroom regardless. And gags.

***

His gagging however, wasn’t from the smell (something saccharine about the sweetness that would make anyone falling victim to it feel excessively uncomfortable) but from the image. Last night’s ‘partner’, sprawled out on the floor (on his back), as unpleasantly scented candles burn around his smashed in head. The blood and brain dashed out against the ground, leaving a smear against the tiles smell like sugar. Blood matts this particular man’s blonde hair together with the ground, sticking like hardened gum. A barely positioned towel (revealing the groin just a bit too much to be anything but terrible) is dry, indicating the corpse has been here for a few hours.

Hazama retches, barely choking back the vomit that pools itself at the bottom of his throat. Slowly, he surveys the scene, hands covering his mouth. From what it looks like, it was an accident. Slipped and fell in the bathroom with a hooker in the other room, what a way to go. And speaking of ways to go, something like a revelation came unto our hero.

How will I get paid now? He thinks.

He takes the thrown phone and quickly dials Yuuki’s number.

“Did you get paid?” Is asked before anything is even said. “How much was it?”

“He’s dead.” Hazama interrupts, knowing that if he doesn’t, Yuuki will continue this line of questioning forever.

For a very long time, neither of them speak. Hazama can not keep his eyes off the corpse and Yuuki can not come up with a half decent plan (if the roles were switched, one of them would end it by now but they aren’t so it here we are).

“Where are you?” The older brother asks.

The address is shared (the exact area of this city being ultimately unimportant).

 

“I’m coming over. Don’t do anything.”

And Hazama doesn’t, taking a seat near the doorframe, watching the corpse (as if expecting it to move or something like that).

***

  
**Marche du Souteneur**

Yuuki arrives at the building shortly afterwards, dragging their worthless, hunk of metal he calls a car towards it. In such a part of town, in his kind of clothing (he put on sweatpants stained with semen this morning and a wifebeater, following it up with the jacket only after he decided he looked sleazy enough as is) and that car, everyone on the streets avoids him (they gossip about whose apartment he’s going into and why he’s there but it won’t come to anything). At least he won’t have to deal with any such issues today.

He enters the building and makes note of the security cameras, avoiding them the best he can (but little does he know, a black miamasa has crawled over them, deactivating them before he had even arrived) as he makes his way towards that particular corpse’s apartment. He enters without knocking.

The first thing he notices is the smell, noting it as being especially sweet.

“Looks like the guy didn’t shit himself at least.” He comments, looking towards the corpse.

“That’s not funny!” Hazama replies (Yuuki doesn’t care and they both know it).

“It is though.” Yuuki replies, sticking both hands in his sweatpant pockets. “Did you kill him?”

Hazama chokes.

“Of course not! Why would I do that?!” He replies.

“Iunno. Cause you’re crazy.” Yuuki shrugs. “What? It’s true.”

By a certain definition, it is but just stating that isn’t enough to calm either brother down. If anything, it makes Hazama even more distressed than one could be.

“Oh my god, what if they think I killed him? I’m way too pretty to go to prison, Yuuki! They’d eat me alive!” He remarks, clutching onto his chest (he should have brought his inhaler but his hatred for any physical defect prevented this).

Without a response, Yuuki approaches the body, putting on a pair of rubber gloves.

“This shit’s worth a fortune.” He remarks, unlatching the chain of a cross that hangs onto the man’s neck. “Seriously, the chain’s like, two hundred bucks on it’s own and I can’t even tell you what the cross’s worth. It’s covered in fucking diamonds.”

“Oh okay, you want to go to jail. That changes everything!” Hazama babbles.

Yuuki sighs, deliberately as dramatically as he can,

“The guy’s a psycho. Nobody’s gonna look twice because some shit’s missing. They’re gonna find his rotting corpse in the bathroom, having obviously slipped and file the obit without any problems. And besides that, would you rather be in prison or dead?” He asks.

Hazama pauses for a moment, struggling to catch his raspy breaths.

“What?” The question comes out struggling, scraping it’s nails against wooden floors until they bleed.

“I need the money, alright? That’s all I’m gonna say.” It’s too late for a verbal backspace but Yuuki, trooper that he is, will try anyway.

Hazama stands up, wipes the saliva from choking off his face, and turns away from his twin.

“It’s your problem.” Yuuki can hear the sneer in his voice (it’s not like Hazama’s default emotion towards him isn’t disdain).

And with that, there is also the sound of receding footsteps.

“I owe Mad Dog money.” Yuuki states, fondling the particular corpse’s glasses to see if they’re of any worth (they’re not).

And that, of course, causes the footsteps to stop for a few seconds before Hazama returns to his brother’s side.

“What should I look for?” He asks.

Just what I wanted to hear; the words that remain unsaid but exist in a shameful space (how could you say that and not have unsavoury intentions, I wonder) where things best left alone tread. Or something dramatic like that.

“Anything made of gold or with diamonds. Nothing too big though. We don’t want investigators showing up and seeing big empty holes, do we?” Yuuki replies.

Hazama nods and disappears off into the bedroom.

***

He reenters the room, cringing as his eyes drift off towards the still unmade bed. He fights the urge to make it, wondering if that would seem strange and concluding that making the bed before taking a shower is strange. Although, his attention is quickly shifted over towards a musty looking book that’s been placed on the floor. Normally, he wouldn’t pay any mind to such things but it just sits there so suspiciously, looking like it wants to be picked up. Being a curious young man (in more ways than one, if you understand my meaning), he does in fact, pick it up and look inside.

“Yuuki, get in here!” He screams, flipping through the pages as he does so.

“What?” Yuuki asks, holding tightly onto that cross still. “Did you find cocaine?”

Our hero is going to let that one go.

“I found your money right here..” He shows him a page from the book for emphasis (but this means nothing to Yuuki) . “It’s got to be millions of Euro in Bearer Bonds here.”

Yuuki places a finger against his lips.

“It’s just paper, Hazama.” He shrugs.

There’s yet another pause.

“Well, technically, Yuuki; All money is made of paper. This just so happens to be the kind of money that nobody can verify we stole. It’s like stealing a check except that if we steal it the bank can’t do shit about it. I think.”

“Yeah… I don’t get it.” The older brother replies with a shrug. “Nobody can tell you stole cash either but they still bust your ass for it.”

“Look, I’ll explain it in the car. Let’s just go the maid or whatever shows up.”

***

  
**Marche du Pute**

That discussion never happens. As usual, Yuuki loses interest and Hazama can’t be bothered to explain things he presumes are above his brother’s comprehension anyway. Instead, our delicate hero flips through the book, wondering what’s hidden beneath those bonds.

Opening it up and removing the papers (setting them down gently to the side because he’s not an animal, goddamn it), he looks over the first page. It depicts a long string of Kanji (old Kanji but he can read it nonetheless) with few breaks between it. It looks old.

“Looks like he was some kind of fetishist.” Hazama laughs. “It’s in Japanese.”

“So? Isn’t it always like that?” He asks.

Hazama doesn’t reply, instead falling deeper into the text.

“In the beginning, there was the Word. And the Word was with me and the word is now you.” The first page says (metaphorically, the shadowing mass of tentacles that lurks between the lines extend a cold and clammy embrace towards our hero’s heart). “And as so, it is now written.”

Scribbling in the white spaces (written in English and German with only the most important things spelled out in the latter) tells a rationalist story.

“What is signified by the word can not truly be encompassed by the word. So if I say ‘----’ then everything that ‘----’ means is lost to anyone unfamiliar with the feeling or the word. In fact, I do not think it controversial that what is within the word depends both on the person speaking and the person listening. In this case, your word is akin to ‘nonsense’ or ‘bullshit’.”

“Yuuki!” Hazama cries (in spite of his brother literally being right next to him). “Yuuki, look at this. It’s weird as shit.”

“I’m driving.” Terumi replies (he drives like a fool, gyrating the steering wheel and his own body as well as focusing on his own thoughts instead of the road, seeming to care not for anyone else’s safety but there’s little time to discuss traffic violations so enough of that).

And so, that’s where the conversation ends. Instead, with morbid curiosity (the same thing that drew him towards that particular corpse during their first meeting, long ago), he continues reading where he left off, turning the page past the opening quote towards the Table of Contents. Once more, written in Kanji. It depicts the spells in a contemporary format. Spells for revenge, curses, the summoning of lesser demons, sex and sexuality, the appearance and a number of other dirty and immoral things.

“It’s a spellbook or something like that. Looks like the guy really was completely fucked in the head.” Hazama says.

“I don’t care unless there’s something in there to make my dick bigger.” Yuuki replies (this time, he keeps his eyes on the road). “Or yours smaller.”

There is a groan and once more, the flipping of pages. From the table of contents come the Introduction, very standard.

“I know you and have known you since you were a child. I held disdain for your mother and father who died without even love to give you and I hold disdain for you and your brothers who receive from this world without ever giving. I ask of you now that you remember and understand your name and disposition as I have.” Hazama feels as if this paragraph was not written for anyone to see, or even, for that particular man to see, but as if it were aimed with him as the one and only audience.

It gives him the feeling of having been watched.

“You are Vainglory and Lechery. You disdain to have weakness and familial relations. When you were born, you were born as a snake with fangs and looked upon your parents with contempt. And as a snake, you curl into every corner of men and women and embrace them as a beast and as a man; with foul words and the visage of a young man. Yet, if the sheets of the bed you lie on with them was not silken cloth twice perfum’d, you would lay on their corpses instead and find their company just as pleasing.”

The text is written in a dark read and almost appears to glisten beneath the sun at high noon.  
On the page, are three more similar paragraphs. The discretions described on them increasing in hideousness as they continue onwards.

“You are Wanton Spending and Covetousness. No one but He has ever looked upon you with pity or compassion or love and so you covet the emotions and feel great envy for them. You, once more as a snake, wrap into the livelihoods of people and cultimate the deceiving image of a man in tears; seeking emotions, any emotions. Pain, suffering, despair and all manner of perverted things are coveted treasures. And if you had your wish, all the men within this city would be coveted by you. But since that wish can not be granted, and you are an envious creature, you spend the money of your brother and of all the men who have ever pitied you in great amounts so you might please yourself and grow pleasing to look at.”

The third ‘verse’ differs slightly from both the previous two and the first but retaining the feeling of being highly personalized.

“For only He has looked upon your sexual immorality and your impurities and your despair in relation to Mankind and said ‘You were enough’. You, as a young man, flagellate yourself for money and the satisfaction of sexual desires and take great pleasure in the unpleasant sensations. And in the disguise of a young man, you encourage others to act out in violence and depravity on your person; You desperately implore them to humiliate and abuse you without concern for their souls. Yet, from whence you were born, you looked upon the world and despised it and all that tread upon it. You are Sadism. You are Masochism. This word was with me and now it is you. And as so, it is now written.”

From beneath that, there is ever more madness. This time, the handwriting feels less like a sloppy printing press and more like well, handwriting. With German peppered throughout, Hazama finds it obviously that particular man’s tirade.

“To hold human beings to the standard of Gods is immoral and wrong. Not a single creature on this Earth is free of sin and I refuse to have you bring up mine in such a manner or even.”

“This book is just full of crazy tirades in the white space.” Hazama says, returning the Bearer Bonds with satisfaction. “I’m almost glad he’s dead now. I don’t need that kind of stuff when I have your crazy ass to deal with.”

Yuuki laughs.

“I’m crazy. Man, that’s a good joke. Didn’t you throw some guy’s cat out the window once?”

Hazama shrugs.

“It survived. Somehow. I swear, those little things are crazy resilient. Kinda like you.”

They both laugh; different but with a connection that can not be denied. The older brother’s is wilder and careless, like a madman, and the younger’s is a more insidious type of giggles; fake but with an unsheathed unsanity behind it as well. They don’t notice their own, hearing and seeing only the other. But who truly understands their own flaws in the mirror? We treat it as if it has a magnifying effect or diminishing. Things we find distasteful in photographs disappear or grow more hideous depending on the lighting, time of day and mood. And even when shown evidence of the flawed mind or behaviour, we assume the bias of others than our own. But that’s really just psychoanalysis bullshit, right? Meaning nothing to you or to me. Only to the two of them.

***

  
**Marche du Souteneur**

By the time they return home, school buses already litter the streets like cigarette butts; a one for one ratio, even.

“Fucking kids!” Yuuki cries out after the bus (one had cut him off in traffic earlier and that is enough to fill him with a potent rage).

Hazama pays no mind and takes a seat on their filthy couch (it reeks of semen and blood no matter how many times he had washed it; by this point, there is no point), opening the book once more.

“Fuck.”

A tear of blood wells from a cut on his index finger and smears onto the first page; instantly soaking up and covering one of the words in red (it’s the word ‘with’ if clarification is desired). As a natural human instinct (he’ll deny he has them), Hazama raises the finger to his lips and licks the blood off of it. In spite of this, blood continues to trickle down from it as if the natural clotting properties for some reason or another had suddenly stopped. Hazama runs off to the bathroom to wash it off (tragically, leaving Yuuki alone with anything of any value).

And this is where our story begins to fall apart.

Yuuki takes the book off the couch and flips it open. This time around, there is the notable addition of Katakana and the extremely conspicuous absence of Bearer Bonds. Understanding what one of them looks like (if not the value), he rushes off to the bathroom and begins slamming on the door.

“Open the door!” He screams, gyrating the handle (or jiggling the stick if ‘that’s what she said’ joke is preferred) and slamming his entire body into it.

“I’m bleeding, jackass!”

“Where’s the money?!” Yuuki replies (glossing over the last comment because well, nobody cares).

“In the book. Obviously.” Hazama replies.

There is the sound of running water and a cabinet slamming.

“More importantly, where are the bandaids? The cut’s pretty deep.” The question is blaise; unaware of the world around itself and of what the future might hold. And it is maddening.

Our deuteragonist has a bodily reaction. His teeth grind (canines are longer than they should be), his pupils dilate and every muscle in his right feels like it’s on fire.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?!” Their father was paranoid too, violent and cruel. “What?! Do you want me to die or something?!”

“I swear to God, if you’re gonna act like a Psycho over this, I’m calling the cops. You really wanna tell Shishigami why you were trying to beat the shit out of me this time?” He scoffs.

Now, normally at this point, Yuuki calms down and gets over it (his anger issues constitute a disorder by this point but he would never go and get diagnosed) but today is not the case. Instead, he screams and throws himself at the door, blind rage clouding over his eyes like a blood rain.

“I don’t give a fuck! At least if I’m in prison, it’d be for something I’m passionate about!” He replies.

Hazama, as Hazama, laughs.

“You’re passionate about me? I’m flattered.” The door cracks. “But… uh… check again, okay! You probably just missed them! Actually, how about I check again?”

And as an easily predictable human being, as a flawed human being, Yuuki falls back and stops his assault on the innocent door.

“I’ll check first. I don’t want you bleeding on anything.” They both know it doesn’t matter if Hazama bleeds on the furniture or not.

Yuuki calmly approaches the book again, only his subconscious mind grimacing as he takes the book into his hands. He opens it and looks inside, this time paying closer attention to the contents. The Katakana is written roughly and in Chickenscratch. It conflicts greatly with the contents, resembling (as if he knows this) what Hazama had seen. Unfortunately for the two of them, that is also quite different.

“In the beginning there was the Word. And the word was me and the word is now you.” The book says. “And as so, it is now written.”

There’s a passing wave of anxiety, quickly replaced with curiosity as he dives deeper into the understanding of the material (the stupid act, the disposition of ignorance, is only important when it suits him of course).

“I ask you to understand only your name and disposition.” The starting paragraph remains the same.

The text is written in a dark read and almost appears to glisten beneath the sun at high noon.  
On the page, are three more similar paragraphs. The discretions described on them increasing in hideousness as they continue onwards.

“You are Pride and Schadenfreude; You abominate to have responsibility and claim to the human race. When you were born, you were born as a snake with fangs and looked upon your parents with contempt. And as a snake, you curl into every corner of men and women’s possessions and qualities and embrace them as a beast; taking from them with foul words and violence. Yet, if one were to do the same to you, you would bemoan and cry as if struck and engage in many cruelties against them.”

As he reads through this, he smiles, feeling as if somehow this was always intended to reach him.

“You are Despair and Masturbation. No one but He has ever looked upon you with understanding or forgiveness or pity and so you swallow up negative emotions and feel great pleasure in doing so. You, once more as a man, wrap into the livelihoods of people and wear a demon’s face; seeking misery as a masturbatory fantasy. And if you had your wish, all the men within this city would fall into despair alongside you. But since since that wish can not be granted and you are a sexual creature, you destroy the egos of your brother and all the men who have ever pitied you so that you might please and lie to yourself.”

“For only He has looked upon your sexual immorality and your impurities and your hatred in relation to mankind and said ‘You were enough’. You, as a snake with fangs, flagellate others for blood and the satisfaction of sexual desires and take great pleasure in their pain. And in the disguise of a young man, you seek to raise yourself among them to further marr their bodies with depravity but remained untouched by either morals or retribution; Yet, from whence you were born, you looked upon yourself and despised it and anyone that may pity it. You are Masochism. You are Sadism. This word was with me and now it is you. And as so, it is now written.”

Yuuki closes the book. He cuts himself on the paper but doesn’t notice.

“I couldn’t find them!” He figures it might make Hazama hurry up.

And it does. Seconds later, he exits the bathroom with a piece of duct tape hastily wrapped around his finger.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Hazama hisses, taking the book from his brother’s hand (as if there’s a way to look through a book wrong that isn’t something like setting it on fire).  
Within this moment, the book starts to do something very… unbook-ly (it’s a word now). Hazama, being decently reasonable, drops it onto the floor. Yuuki remains unphased, staring at it blankly (and isn’t it thankful we’re in his head right now, otherwise we wouldn’t know all of his delicious thoughts) without either curiosity or fear. It wasn’t as if he were staring at a trainwreck (a fascination he held onto for the gruesomeness and found himself unable to look away) or he didn’t understand what was happening, it was just that he didn’t care. In spite of a thousand possibilities going through his head (ranging from Demonic Possession to a prank being played by an upset patron), he can’t seem to manage to give a single fuck about any of them. Except for the fact that it might be Hazama doing it. He isn’t sure how he would feel about that.

The book falls open, revealing a pair of pages.

***

  
**Pastorale**

Hazama stares down at the book with a frozen face, stuck in something like an upside down smile (not yet a frown but with possibility and familiarity to it; the much younger second cousin of a frown, you could say). The pages of it are smeared with blood, far too much to be an accidental cut, and candle wax so most of the words are obscured. The remaining ones are in a language so unfamiliar that they can’t even begin to guess what it’s supposed to be. In actuality, it’s High German and Latin that switches between so erratically that it would take someone skilled in both languages to read it but I digress.

“Are you going to get that?” Hazama asks after a minute, switching back to a calm voice and smiling expression. “The book, I mean.”

Yuuki shakes his hands.

“Nah, you get it. I mean, you said you’d do it right? I don’t want to tear the Bonds and you know how clumsy I am.” He replies (he’s smiling as well but it’s more… passionate/predatory?).

And so, the two of them stand like that for a while; debating both doing it for themselves (partially because of some meagre amount of brotherly affection, partially to get it over with) and trying to find more creative and clever ways into conning the other one into doing it instead.

“I’m scared. Do it for me.” Hazama abruptly announces, ending the silent arms’ race.

And here we come to the first of many genuine dilemmas.

You see, if there were to exist a Venn Diagram of fatal flaws and deadly sins, there would be three circles for each of them (at least but let’s not overcomplicate this). As the Grimoire had previously established, something the two of them share is the sin of Pride. And while Hazama’s pride and Yuuki’s are markedly different, it is pride all the same and as such, easily manipulated. So in this case, Hazama is throwing away his own for the sake of not having to touch the thing, further bolstering his pride in his mental faculties by outsmarting Yuuki; who, in spite of the massive amounts of cocaine he does, is no slouch when it comes to manipulation.

“Are you saying I’m stronger than you, or something?” Yuuki asks for clarification (he has a masturbatory tone of voice and is definitely getting off on the statement).

Hazama stops for a moment and he thinks. He thinks about that particular man (how strange he would smash his head in on the bathroom floor, not the shower, and wearing a towel too…) and he thinks about the book and the sickly sweet scent of blood that covers their home. He comes to a conclusion.

“I’m saying you’re physically stronger, yeah.” Hazama makes sure to stress ‘physically’ in his sentence.

Yuuki doesn’t notice.

“I’m so hard right now.” Yuuki grins (he’s not even exaggerating).

He walks over towards the book and lifts it up by the page (there is the dull realization that it’s somewhat strange that the page doesn’t tear, especially when it’s so… wet). The words around is shift somewhat, changing rapidly to a language the two of them might understand but settling down at a strange mixture of three when it realizes the extent of the damage it has suffered.

So he walks over towards the Grimoire and lifts it up by the page (the dull realization that it’s strange for wet paper to break when force is applied never really comes). The words shift around somewhat, changing rapidly to a language that the two of them might understand but when it realizes that it’s so filthy, they won’t even be able to read it in the first place, it changes towards a mix of a three. Then the cover begins to move.

Yuuki drops it and jolts backwards, his reflexes smarter than the rest of him.

“Fucking shit, what was that?!” He cusses, reaching to grab it again (against everyone’s better judgment).

The book slides across the floor, expelling blood from it’s pages, covering them two of them in the filth. Hazama looks down at his jacket, noticing a filthy black spot on it (blood isn’t supposed to oxidate that filthy nor is it supposed to be black but he’s less concerned with that more concerned with: )

“That suit was a grand, damnit!” Hazama swears. “That’s it. I’m burning the damn thing as soon as we get our Bonds out of it.”

Yuuki grabs onto it again, re-coating the freshly cleaned book with rotting blood. He peers into it and jumps back in alarm.

Yuuki grabs onto the book again (re-coating a few places with his bloodied hands). A hole in the book opens up, a void so black that he can’t see what’s inside of it (but he can smell what comes from it and it smells like rotting meat).

“Don’t touch it!” He announces, pushing Hazama against the wall with a comment. “Just… let’s go to the shrine tomorrow and get it exorcised. Okay?”

It’s a rare moment of both clarity and compassion that causes Hazama to raise an eyebrow (note that he doesn’t open his eyes). Naturally, he feels compelled to ruin it.

It’s a rare moment of both clarity and compassion in his older brother that causes Hazama to raise an eyebrow. Obviously, it’s some kind of a trick or deception. And after he did the same thing, how rude.

“Exorcise it? And give up our Bearer Bonds? Are you huffing glue?” Hazama asks.

Yuuki takes a breath.

“Other than the fact that it expelled rotting blood from it’s pages or the fact that it was speaking to us, nothing in particular. I swear, it’s possessed or something. Maybe Kaz--”

“It literally just spat rotting blood at us, bitch. It’s obviously possessed.” Yuuki thinks for a moment. “We should call Kaz--”

Hazama shrieks.

“Don’t even say it! Don’t even think about saying it! We can do this ourselves. Just pour some salt on it.” He replies (he calms down like a cat, a bristle of hair smoothing along with his voice).

“I’m like, ninety percent sure that the salt goes on before the possession. Which is why we take it to the shrine because they know how to deal with.” Yuuki explains.

What he doesn’t say is that he has something of a shrine maiden/nun fetish and it’s a great excuse to hit on the girls. He can act manly and talk about he saved his more ‘delicate’ brother from the demon book. Maybe steal some cash from wherever the hell they keep it. Probably also one of their skirts.

Unfortunately for him, Hazama already know. He walks over towards the book and grabs it firmly, digging his fingernails into the pages.

 

“Bullshit! It’s a goddamn book, Yuuki, it has to do what we say!” Hazama turns his attention towards the book. “Do you understand that?! I’m the human here so you will obey!”

He thrusts his hand into the hole.

At this very moment in time, somewhere far away from all of this (where only the smell of winter remains), a demon in the shape of man notices something opening in his realm. He notices that a pale and slender hand, with short nails all in a row (the nails are so straight and the hand so bone white that it is akin to a tooth) reaching down into this Tragic Dimension.

“So it’s time then.” A question phrased as (and understood) as a statement.

He reaches into it.

Back in our reality, there’s a pair of screams; so loud that they can be heard throughout even the backstreets of the complex. The reason? A pale hand, wearing gloves that are almost white with only dots of blood (so red that they look as if they were meant to be there all along) spotting the fingertips of it. This hand latches onto Hazama’s wrist and pulls tightly, using it to drag the rest of itself out of the book. The impossibility of this act does not go unnoticed but since the two of them are practically monsters themselves, there is no vomiting, there are no tears (but they stare at It as if nothing else had ever even existed).

Continuing from the hand comes an entire arm (clad in what appears to be a black suit and purple undershirt) and then a torso and a head, the remaining arms, hips, legs and finally, feet. At the end of it, the figure of a young man stands ontop of the book, the deep purple cape that adorns his shoulders blowing back with an unseen wind.

At this point, the pair of gazes (which had been strongly held towards the book), raise up towards the man, from his legs to his face. They note his long legs and (for the average man) large hips, the not quite delicate but not… not delicate waist, the fact that he seems to not breathe and pale pink lips (it’s as if they were touched by the cold). The rest of his face follows the precedent of winter with high cheekbones (they hold sharpness and gauntness, implying the touch of a ghost) and an icy gaze hidden poorly (in contrast to his eyes which are completely absent) that surveys the room around theirself.

That particular demon looks down at Hazama (don’t worry about it, everyone does and has and will from the day he was born and until the day he will die) with emotions that nobody besides himself can quite place.

“Hello.” The demon states (the emotions in that are equally as vague).

But even such a scene isn’t enough to keep Hazama down. He sneers and stands up with self-righteous indignation.

“So you’re the bastard that spat blood at me? You owe me two grand.” He says.

And with that, he takes a seat on his couch (which seems like rotting blood as well as semen now) and kicks his feet onto the coffee table.

Yuuki isn’t feeling quite as relaxed.

“Where the hell are my Bearer Bonds?” He spits.

While the demon doesn’t shift, it still feels as if he couldn’t care less about the Bonds.

“How would I know? I am not the owner of this book. I’m merely what the two of you had called for. Might I ask why you did that?” The demon answers with a question.

At this point, Hazama becomes aware of the rules he was told once by someone quite experienced in the act of summoning demons (he refuses to mention the name or even think of it).

Hazama thinks for a moment, recalling the rules and guides he was told long ago (the name of the person who helped lays on his tongue but doesn’t venture off of it).

“Tell me your name and I’ll answer you.” Hazama bargains.

“So you’ve read up on your Demonology then? Clever. As most demons, I have many names. Although not all of them are my own.” This particular demon starts.

The demon chuckles.

“Read up on your demonology, have you? Well, regardless, as most demons do, I’ve many names. However, none of them are my own.” He replies.

“If you find a diamond in the desert and nobody’s there to stop you, it’s your diamond. So if nobody’s using those names or is stopping you from using them, they’re your names.” He says.

“If you find a diamond in the desert and nobody owns it, it’s your diamond. So, if the people that own those names are dead, they’re your names. It’s just a law of the universe.” Yuuki says (it’s a rare moment of wisdom from him; if you can consider the advocation of stealing as wisdom).

“Is that how you feel about everything?” There’s amusement in that particular demon’s tone of voice but nobody cares.

“Yes.” Hazama interrupts (in the form of speaking when someone else is trying to). “Although, I’d like to think that there’s another law to that. If you take something and nobody cares enough to stop you then it’s yours. So, I guess you and the book are ours now.”

The demon glosses over that because there’s absolutely nothing any sane person can really say to that other than “What’s wrong with you?” and “You can’t own sapient beings.” (nobody owns an Orca and nobody owns an Elephant and nobody owns a human, not even another human).

“Well, in that case, I’ll do my duty and tell you all the names I currently possess. You may call me Sitri, Mephiso, Duke Berith or something of your choosing. Actually, as you are my first summoners, it’s your right to choose a name for me. Please, choose something that’s fitting.” He requests it with a wry smile (it’s not a smile but more akin to a sneer or a baring of fangs.)

Yuuki wanders over towards the couch but doesn’t sit, standing beside Hazama (who was always something of a smooth talker) as the two think about naming conventions.

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll name you now.” Hazama smiles back (while it would look more genuine from afar or to a stranger, all of the present parties know this is agonistic behaviour; a ritualized display and sizing up of the opponent like a pair of animals fighting over territory). “But you know… I don’t really think something you deserve a real name! I mean, you’re not even human. So you can be Sitri and stay that way.”

“Wow, it must be really important for you to get a name, if you’re asking me so politely.” Hazama smiles back (while it would look more genuine to a stranger, all of the present parties know this a ritualized display; the sizing up and intimidation of an opponent as if they were animals fighting over territory). “But you know… I’m not really good with coming up with names so how about I just call you ‘One’? Because I’m your first summoner and you’re my first demon.

The name holds no sincerity whatsoever beyond a sincere grude. For what reason? Who can tell. But it is a nigh guarentee to be unbelievably petty.

Sitri takes a seat on their filthy couch, completely bypassing them as if he wasn’t phased in the slightest. Actually, there is no ‘if’, he really couldn’t care less.

One sits beside Hazama on the filthy couch, walking past Yuuki without even paying attention to him. Maybe as retribution but probably because his legs got tired, Yuuki takes a seat right beside the demon and boxes him in (he kicks his feet onto the table as well).

“What do you want from me?” One asks, honestly uncomfortable.

“What’s your best offer?” Yuuki asks, placing his arms behind his head.

He had prepared for this, you know. He had thought and thought and thought (time moves so erratically down there that it felt both like he was waiting for days and for minutes) on this topic and debated prizes and prices. But when asked, somehow, everything he had worked on comes up blank and empty. So, One waits for a few moments without speaking as he determines the right way to say this; the poetic way.

“Your futures. They way they were intended to be.” The demon replies.

“What’s the catch?” Hazama asks without missing a beat.

“There is no catch. There’s merely a price.” The demon states. “For your futures, the price is simply your dreams. For your pasts however, as time and the human mind are difficult for me to alter, the price is nothing more than say, your Immortal Souls.”

“There is no catch.” One answers. “It’s merely a price. All Demonic Contracts are made through the process of equivalent exchange. In order to receive something from me, you must offer me something that is of equal or greater value. For example, the price for witchcraft is one’s Immortal Soul. Which, generally speaking, tends to be worth it considering most Witches are going to Hell before I ever even reach them.”

“Well what’s the price then?” Hazama asks (when you repeat a question like that, there’s always the feeling that you aren’t getting anywhere).

“The price for your pasts? To alter the memories of others? It’s a paltry trick that even a human could do, as such, the price is simply your dreams and your company. But for your futures, it’s a literal exchange. A future is traded only for a future and as you have no claim on anyone else’s, you must exchange yours. To be more clear, if the conditions are not fulfilled by a certain date, I receive your souls as compensation. Therefore, in return for a better future, you receive a shorter one.” One explains.

“And the conditions are….?” Hazama hurries the conversation along.

And if One was less subtle, he would smile because he knows now that he has them in his grasp. But since he is as he always was (quiet and unassuming with an underlying current of drama that he holds close to his breast), that’s not really a problem for him.

“Quite simple. In return for past, I ask only two things of you. To prevent the other’s candle from burning down and to never leave your home after Midnight. By simply doing that, you assure that I can not visit you in either your dreams or in person, respectively. These are the rules to which are interactions shall be defined. In the event they are broken, I feel it goes without saying that you should be expecting me shortly.”

Yuuki snorts again.

“You demons are pretty lax, huh? The youth home was stricter than you. So, obviously, I accept.” He replies.

“I am not finished.” One struggle to maintain a veneer of congeniality when all he wants to do is go home (home being defined as where one feels comfortable and since he isn’t comfortable anywhere, he has no home but I digress). “In return for a better future, I will come to steal your souls within six years from tomorrow’s twilight; July 7th, so you do not forget. If by that time, you have not found a human being other than each other that will look at you with either pity or compassion, then your souls will not be saved and will descend with me to the deepest part of Hell. Do you accept?”

As the statement soon as the had been made, Hazama has already begun to rapidly formulate a way to get out of every agreement. He’s already figured out the first two and there’s not a doubt in his mind that he can find pity within a week, although he greatly doubts Yuuki’s ability to do the same (it’s not his problem and Yuuki will do as he so pleases anyway).

“The conditions seem fine to me. I accept your offer!” He replies (he smiles normally but along with it is the distinct sense of satisfaction you can only get from knowing you’re about to outsmart a demon).

Yuuki on the other hand is seriously in thought. He’s also figured a way to beat the first two rules without violating them (even though he doesn’t really care either way, it might hamper later attempts to garner pity), the same as Hazama, but the third… He doubts he could convince even a nun to look at him kindly. Or rather, he doubts he could convince even a nun to look at him kindly for more than a few hours and he’s sure that it’s not as easy as running up to some kid and handing them a chocolate bar. But if Hazama can do it (and this is his pride again), he can.

“Like I said, my Youth Home was stricter than you. Obviously, I accept too!” Yuuki grabs onto One and shakes his hand.

The demon quickly yanks it away, leaving it to rest on his own thigh.

“It’s not enough to verbally agree. A contract of this magnitude has to be sealed with something more… visceral. As it was done in days past, we seal a contract with a kiss. Unfortunately with you being twins, this is going to be somewhat awkward. Please, stick out your tongues.” He asks.

The two of them, apathetic to something that I’m sure most people would either see as highly exciting (for a variety of reasons) or strange, stick out their tongues.

One grimaces and for a moment, just a moment, he wonders if all of this is really worth it. Then he remembers he has no real choice in the manner and he pulls their heads in together and flicks his own tongue against theirs in a strange and sloppy imitation of a normal one. He pulls away, wiping some spit off his lips.  
“Consider the contract sealed. I’ll be taking my leave now.” The demon states.

He vanishes into the darkness of the room, taking with him, the rotting flesh that covers the walls and leaving only the book as proof he had ever been there in the first place.

Nobody tries to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sick. What can I say? Also, anyone that guesses the naming convention of the chapters correctly gets a bonus from me. Also, it took me half an hour to actually get this posted so you should all appreciate it, lol.


End file.
